


and I'm crashing into you

by mazily



Category: Ocean's 8 (2018)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-27 07:07:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16213976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mazily/pseuds/mazily
Summary: You'd think you'd be able to manage to not marry Debbie more than five times.





	and I'm crashing into you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brocanteur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brocanteur/gifts).



> Lyrics courtesy of Beyoncé. Thanks to L. for all the help.

1.

Danny Ocean objects. Black coat flapping in the wind like a reject from a Batman film, voice pitched to reach the vicar from the entrance of the church. "You can't marry my sister, darling," he says, once he's flapped his way to your side. He takes a breath, a dramatic pause. "Not when you're already married to me."

There's a collective gasp crescendoing into shouting (Constance loudly fanning the flames, confusing matters even more by yelling, "Yo, now we can finally be honest and declare our love to the world!"). Debbie smirks. Mouths,  _ I told you _ , and slips into the sacristy with the priest. You slip the rings into Danny's hand, let him guide you closer to the altar. The chalice, a cross, anything that looks like it might be worth something all end up hidden in the pockets of his ridiculous coat before you moan, "I'm going to--," and trust him to catch you when you pretend to faint.

He does. You'll give him that. He catches you and carries you dramatically out of the church.

 

2.

"But she can't testify against me," Debbie says, crossing her legs and smirking at her lawyer, and you suddenly understand far too well why she'd dragged you to this meeting. "Not if we're married. Which we will be--"

"Debbie," you warn. 

"--next Saturday," Debbie says. She grabs at one of your hands, holds it just a little too hard. A little too forcefully. "Darling," she adds, in a perverse cross of romantic and a warning, "I think it's too late now to hide our love, don't you? I know you wanted to keep it a secret because of your parents, but if there ever was a time to  _ confess everything _ , wouldn't it be now?"

You flinch at the implied threat. Not enough that the lawyer, with her severe hair and suit so ugly it must be expensive, would notice. Debbie does, though, with a spark in her eyes and a smile that doesn't show.

"Fine," you say. You don't have to pretend to be in love with Debbie--that's been a part of your DNA for almost as long as you've known her, not that you'll be confessing that any time soon--but you let it show, a bit, when you smile at her. Nor is the embarrassment at being caught out entirely false. "Does it help, though?" you ask the attorney, "If we're only making it official next week? Only it's the anniversary of the first time she kissed me, so the date is pretty important."

The attorney looks back and forth between the two of you, eyes returning again and again to your hands twisted together with hers on your thigh, and sighs. "Let me see what I can do," she says. 

And then Debbie smiles, wide and honest, and you know she's up to something. Know she's figured something out. That this entire predicament won't even last until tomorrow, let alone next week. "Oh," she says, "Thank you. I knew I could count on you." 

 

3.

You're tying your bowtie, checking the lines of your suit, when Debbie breaks into your hotel room. Her cheeks are red, and she's short of breath; she's wearing green--"are those culottes?" you ask, "and is that, you're wearing a vest, Debbie."

"Yep," she says. 

"Not a waistcoat," you clarify. Because your mind won't catch up to what you're seeing. 

"It's Girl Scout Cookie season," Debbie says, like that's an explanation that makes sense. Like that's an excuse to wear knee socks and shorts and white canvas trainers. You tell yourself to ignore the bright green fanny pack; you don't actually want to know the reason for it. "Tammy and I were switching out cookies with the other troop leaders. There's apparently a huge black market for these things."  

"Right," you say. "Sounds good."

"Anyway," she says, hopping up on the counter while you apply your lipstick. "I'm here to object to you marrying whoever it is you're marrying. You look great, by the way. Love the look."

You put the lipstick tube down on the counter. "My what?" you say. You pause to blot your lips, to try to follow the twists and turns of Debbie's ridiculous mind. "Debbie," you finally say, "You do know I'm here as part of Amita's wedding party, right?"

Her smile is big and false and she's definitely lying when she says, "Of course." Her tone is too breezy for her to be honest, never mind that she's supposed to be out there standing up for Amita as well (you really hope she's got a dress stashed away somewhere). She pulls a box of Caramel deLites from her fanny pack--you hate that she knows they're your favorites, but that does at least explain that stupid bag--and offers it to you.

You take them. Open the box, pull out a cookie and take a big bite. You'll have to reapply your lipstick, but it's worth it. "Thanks," you say, mumbled around caramel and coconut and buttery cookie. 

"Here, have another," Debbie says. She puts another cookie on the counter, only this one has something sparkling at the middle. Something gold and green (she knows how you feel about emeralds) and--

"Is that a ring, Ocean?" you ask.

"Let's run off to Vegas and get hitched," she says.

 

4.

"Run!" Debbie shouts. Your motorcycle is just at the end of the street, and you listen for Debbie's footsteps echoing on the pavement behind you as you run for it. Jump on, feel Debbie climb aboard behind you, and start the motor and drive as fast as two wheels will take you out of town.

 

5.

"Nobody actually eats at Arby's on purpose," you say. 

Debbie takes a too big bite of her roast beef sandwich. Barbecue sauce smeared across her mouth. "I do," she says, not that anyone but you would understand her around her mouthful of disgusting sandwich. 

You take one of her french fries. Dip it into a puddle of mayo. 

Outside, an Aston Martin smokes and sputters its way into the rest stop parking lot. You pop the fry into your mouth, wash it down with a swig of bottled water. "Right," you say, wiping your hands on a paper napkin, "It's go time."

Debbie stands. Is halfway across the room, her bag (complete with face wipes, makeup, a change of clothes) thumping against her side, when you catch up to her. "God, I love the way you look in a mechanic's uniform," she says, looking you up and down. Her eyes stop on your name badge. "Greta," she adds, before slapping your ass. 

"Fuck you," you say.

"Not until after the wedding, darling," she says. Middle finger up in the air behind her.

 

6.

Debbie has that look on her face. 

"No," you say. But you open the door, let Debbie inside. Watch as she studies the art on your walls, the furniture you picked out for Tammy to deliver to your door, the layout and size of your Met Gala payout loft. 

She whistles. "Nice digs," she adds. "Very you."

You wince as she circles around, boot heels clacking against the floor. Oblivious to the shoe rack near the door. To your slippers and the spare house shoes and--

"Shoes. Off," you say. "House rules."

"Not in you old place," she says, but she's already walking back toward the door.

"This isn't my old place," you say. You shrug. "I like my floors clean."

She puts her hands up. "Sorry," she says, and leans down to unzip her boots. Pulls them off and slips her feet into the ridiculous Eeyore slippers you bought in a fit of whimsy (and not at all because you imagined Debbie stomping around in them). 

"Drink?" she asks. She holds up a bottle of wine, hides it behind her back when you peer in to check the label. "It's a good vintage, I promise," she says. "Trust me."

"Never."  _ Always _ . You walk toward the kitchen, enjoy the feel of her eyes on your backside as she follows.

*

Debbie's plan is ridiculous, and it doesn't get any less ridiculous with the application of a couple of glasses of wine. You tease her about it, hold off on agreeing to participate as long as you can, flirting as your chopsticks battle over the last dumpling. You let Debbie win. Laugh as she dances her ridiculous celebratory chair dance, roll your eyes as she bites into the dumpling. Moans theatrically about its deliciousness. 

"I don't know why I put up with you," you say. (A lie: you know all too well why.) 

"Obviously," Debbie says, around a mouth full of dumpling, "It's my brilliant mind. Or my beauty."

"Your hubris, more like," you say. 

"You know you love me," Debbie says.

Your chopsticks pause halfway to your mouth, hands suddenly unsteady. You duck down, stuff the noodles into your mouth. Chew. Swallow. Take your time eating, savoring the grease and heat and comfort, let the flavors warm you from the inside out. Ignore Debbie altogether. Confident that she hates the feeling of being ignored.

Suddenly the rest of dinner is another battle: who will finish eating first, who will break the silence. You savor your food. Chew slowly, decadently, and take long swallows of wine to wash everything down. Watch Debbie as she does the same.  

Her hair is shorter than the last time you saw her. Not by much, just enough that you notice it. And she's sunburnt across her nose, like she's spent too much time in the sun without planning for it: stuck in a queue or traffic or maybe just studying her latest mark from a park bench. 

"You know you want to," Debbie says. She reaches out, twists her fingers in yours. "You did say yes when I proposed, every single time. No take backs." She waggles her eyebrows, and you snort. 

"Fuck," you say. The doorbell rings. 

"That'll be the officiant," Debbie says. "Or the witnesses. Ooh, or maybe the flowers; I got one of everything, pretty much, and Amita's bringing a cake from this bakery she discovered in Paris."

"I don't even remember where I put that stupid ring."

She pulls it out of her pocket. It's still stupidly perfect for you. "I do," she says. 

Debbie stands, walks around the table until she's standing directly in front of you. You tilt your head back, just enough to watch her face, to watch the slight curve of her mouth and the flush on her cheeks. Her eyes are dilated. Pupils blown large and black, and you can barely make out any brown. You startle: her hand is on the back of your chair somehow, and her legs on either side of yours. She holds the ring out, and you slide your hands under your thighs.

"I didn't say yes," you say.  

"I didn't ask," she says. 

You give in. Pluck the ring from her fingers and wrap your arms around her neck. Pull her down into a kiss. The doorbell rings again--again, and again, and then in one non-stop wail--as you kiss Debbie, enjoy the feel of her pressed against you in your lap.

You drop the ring down the back of her shirt and laugh against her mouth as she squirms. Stand up, laugh even harder when she falls on her ass, when her laughter turns suddenly hysterical, and go to answer the door.  

You turn back to face Debbie once you've reached the entrance, catch the moment she tries to hide the way she's watching you, face going blank like she's on a job, eyes dull and purposefully blank. "I expect a generous pre-nup," you say. 

You turn back to the door before she can react. Open it to the entire gang outside, dressed in wedding frippery (Rose's hat is a sight to behold) and practically swamped with boxes and bags. 

"I love you too," Debbie calls out. 

 


End file.
